


in sunshine or in shadow

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [193]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Archaeology, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Jealous Merlin, Linguistics, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Possession, Psychometry, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 08:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: When Merlin picks him up at the train station, it’s love at first sight.Well. That might be a bit of an exaggeration.





	in sunshine or in shadow

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Please note that this is not intended as an accurate depiction of either archaeology or linguistics! While I did do some basic research for context, a great deal of artistic licence was taken in the representation of both fields; this story is intended more as an affectionate homage to shows like Relic Hunter and Labyrinth than it is a reflection of reality. So don't @ me 😜
> 
> If you're wondering why it's set in France – apparently, in some versions of the legend, King Arthur was also ruler of part of France and wanted to be an emperor. The More You Know!
> 
> Many thanks to arthur_pendragon for looking this over for me, way back when.
> 
> Please do not repost elsewhere or list my fic on Goodreads (or any other similar spaces).

When Merlin picks him up at the train station, it’s love at first sight.

Well. That might be a bit of an exaggeration.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Arthur says, holding out a hand and smiling his best ‘I-go-to-school-with-rock-stars’ smile. “My father’s one of the leading archaeologists on the dig.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Merlin says, and god—that mouth, those _eyes_. When he smiles, it’s like the sun comes out. “I’m Merlin Emrys. Technically, I’m a linguist, but I'm volunteering on the dig this summer for the experience.”

“Oh, sweet,” Arthur says, and then one of the worst pick-up lines ever comes out of his mouth: “So, how many languages do you speak?”

Merlin Emrys, he of the dark hair and sinfully pretty lips, sighs the long-suffering sigh of someone who has heard that question once too often and raises his eyes to the heavens.

“Technically?” he says. “All of them.”

Things go downhill from there.

+

The thing is, Arthur is only helping out at the dig for the summer because his father insisted; said it would be good for him to get away from the partying and ‘loose’ atmosphere at university and do some real work for a change. Arthur isn’t sure exactly what university was like in his father’s time, but life at Cambridge is far from easy, and Arthur hasn’t been to a party in months. It’s hard to keep a straight-A average when you’re so hungover you don’t know whose room you left your boxers in the night before—not that he hasn’t tried.

Merlin, though. Merlin treats him like he’s just a kid, like he hasn’t spent the latter half of his life shuttling back and forth between boarding school and his father’s pet projects here in France. He’s been helping out on dig-sites since he was still in short pants, before Merlin Emrys had ever even thought the words “medieval French history” and he has two-thirds of a degree to prove it, but so far Merlin can’t seem to get rid of him fast enough. If Arthur’s father hadn’t tasked him with showing his son around, Arthur’s fairly certain Merlin would have ditched him by the side of the road and left him to it with next to no regrets.

He does his best not to take it personally; some people are just born to be dicks and that’s all there is to it, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s supposed to be more to Merlin than this—more than a cold shoulder and a tight mouth, more than wary eyes. It’s probably wishful thinking.

“Shame we can’t just hire a bulldozer to do the hard parts,” Arthur quips, his first day on the job. Merlin might not have taken to him immediately, but bonding through the shared trauma of early mornings and backbreaking labour is usually a good place to start.

Usually. Merlin’s mouth gets even tighter, and his eyes go flat. “Personally, I enjoy working on ‘the hard parts,’” he says, and there’s enough mimicry in his voice that Arthur can hear the unspoken _snob_ that letters his pronunciation. "But maybe that's just me."

Arthur wouldn’t consider himself stuck-up—not exactly. It’s just that he’s never met someone so completely unimpressed by his name and pedigree before, nor someone he’s so desperately keen to impress. It’s refreshing. It’s infuriating. It’s entirely bewildering, and Arthur has no idea what to do about it.

+

The weather is plotting against him. Less than a week into Arthur’s summer holiday and the lacklustre sun has turned scorching hot, so that all the men at the dig have to take off their shirts or risk death by heatstroke—including Merlin. Merlin’s skin is very pale and soon turns red under the glare despite his liberal use of SPF 50. Arthur is supposed to be sifting soil samples in a trench instead of watching him, but it’s like he can’t tear his eyes away. For a skinny, nerdy guy, Merlin looks surprisingly buff when slathered in oil, and Arthur desperately wants to run his hands all over him. His mouth, too. Whatever part of him Merlin would prefer, really; he’s not fussy.

Merlin shows no signs of having noticed Arthur’s attention, but when they break for lunch, Arthur sits beside him in the shade and Merlin gives him a wary nod, the first overtly friendly gesture he’s made since Arthur got there.

“So, what got you into historical linguistics?” Arthur asks, carefully unwrapping a ham and cheese sandwich. He’s squinting out over the dig site, away from Merlin, but he is viscerally aware of the man beside him. How close they’re sitting. How much he wants to fucking _touch_ him. “I mean, there are other fields you could’ve gone into, right? Forensics and speech therapy and stuff?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Merlin sounds surprised that Arthur even knows that much, which is...kind of insulting, really, but score one for Arthur’s hasty Google search the night before. “I guess I’ve always been interested in the intersection between language and history. Being able to read things written down a long time ago, to learn what people's lives were like and how external changes were reflected in their writing and vocabulary…I find it fascinating.”

Arthur nods, although he’s a little surprised. Merlin doesn’t seem much like a people person, but perhaps he’s friendlier with people who aren’t Arthur. Or maybe he just prefers them when they’re dead.

“What about you?” Merlin asks politely. “What made you take up archaeology?”

“My father,” Arthur answers, shrugging. Pretty much everything in his life comes back to his father in some way. “He wants me to continue the family tradition.”

Merlin’s mouth tips up at one corner.

“You always do what your father tells you?”

“Not always.” Arthur meets his gaze—there’s no point in being subtle, really—and lets his eyes drift down Merlin’s body before returning to his face. Merlin remains inscrutable. It’s like being stared at by a very intelligent bird, one that you’re not sure won’t claw your eyes out if you make any sudden movements. Arthur’s not intimidated, because Merlin is a skinny six foot nothing and Arthur could definitely take him in a fight, but. There’s something about those eyes. That expression. There’s sweat dripping down his back but he still feels a cold shiver run between his shoulder-blades, like someone walking over his grave.

“I can’t really speak every language,” Merlin says suddenly, apropos of fuck-all as far as Arthur can tell. He looks down into his lap, breaking the tense stand-off, and fiddles with the crusts of his half-eaten sandwich. “Linguistics is kind of—it’s a language about language, so learning the building blocks is like having an all-access pass to the way things work. Most of my studies have been in relation to the Romance languages, though, particularly _l’ancien français_.”

“I know that,” Arthur says, and when Merlin raises an eyebrow at him he mumbles, “I might have done some reading on the internet the other day. The list of publications on your bio is very impressive, _Doctor_ Emrys.”

Maybe Arthur is imagining it, but he’s pretty sure Merlin’s cheeks go pink, turning a few shades darker under the burn from the sun. “Thanks,” he says, scrubbing the back of his neck. “But I’d really prefer it if you call me Merlin.”

+

Things aren’t exactly easy, after that, but Arthur suspects that nothing about Merlin is easy. He works in silence most days, exchanging brief words with the others only when he has to, and spends most of his breaks in the shade with his nose buried in a book—at least when he’s not awkwardly re-applying sunscreen to some part of his body.

It’s on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to offer to help; the thought of that milky-white skin beneath his fingers is one that keeps him up at nights, one hand wrapped around his cock, his lower lip caught between his teeth to prevent the sounds from travelling through the thin canvas of his tent. But Merlin has given him no encouragement on that front, and he still barely acknowledges Arthur’s existence most of the time. Arthur has no interest in going begging for something that most people usually offer him for free.

By the end of the third week, though, Arthur is starting to get stir crazy. Between the sultry summer heat and the endless hours of forced proximity, he’s beginning to feel strung out by sheer rapacity, and he’s surprised he hasn’t worn the skin off his palm with the number of times he’s snuck off for a furtive wank. He borrows—read: steals—his father’s keys and drives into town on Friday evening, determined to put a stop to this once and for all, and heads for the nearest pub with his wallet out and his charm on, ready to buy a drink for the first dark-haired man he sees.

He probably should have known better. The man seems nice enough, though all Arthur really sees of him is his cock, and the curly brown pubic hair it’s nestled in as he takes as much into his mouth as he dares.

“God, yes,” the man moans, spilling into the condom between Arthur’s lips, and it should be sexy and hot but somehow it isn’t. Arthur’s barely even hard.

He lets the stranger reciprocate because he might as well, then falls asleep in the man’s bed and wakes in the early hours with a dull sense of regret pounding in time to the pain in his head. He’s an idiot. Worse, he’s an idiot who is going to have to sneak back to the dig in last night’s clothes and pray there’s no one awake to ask him where he's been.

Unfortunately, he’s not that lucky. Merlin is outside of his tent drinking coffee when Arthur pulls up, and there’s no avoiding that piercing gaze. Arthur gets out of the car, acutely aware of how he must look: rumpled hair, shirt a mess, last night’s shoes and jacket in hand like some stupid uni kid doing a walk of shame.

“Stayed over with a friend,” he says awkwardly, because they both know exactly what he’s been doing, but saying the thing out loud will just make it worse. “Still a bit hungover.”

“You’ve got a hickey on your neck,” Merlin says, impassive, then turns and walks away.

+

It’s all he thinks about, now, waking or sleeping. Merlin’s hands on his skin; Merlin’s breath at his neck; Merlin pinned beneath him, sheltered by Arthur’s body as they wait for some unseen danger to pass. Arthur is never sure exactly what it is, because in the dream he’s too fixated on the way Merlin feels against him, the hitching shudder of his chest as he breathes, too fast, against Arthur’s ear. They never fuck. It’s not even—it’s not something he even _thinks_ about, while he’s dreaming, like the very concept would be too dangerous, but there’s no denying what it is he wants when he wakes up, or the barely controlled hunger that simmers beneath his skin.

Maybe he’s going mad. Maybe Merlin is some kind of incubus, feeding off of Arthur’s unslaked lust, and that’s why he blows so hot and cold all the damn time. One day, when Arthur hands him a trowel, their fingers meet and sparks dart across Arthur’s palm like there’s a live wire buried beneath his skin, but when he looks up Merlin doesn’t even glance at him, as though he hasn’t noticed the way the world seems to shudder on its axis every time they touch. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe all of this is Arthur’s delusion only, some kind of reckless fever burning its way through his bones.

He has almost convinced himself that this is the case when they find the ring, buried in the dirt they’d excavated from what was once the eastern tower. _They_ find it, because in theory they’re screening this patch of earth together, but Arthur is the one who sifts it out of the dirt, and he's the one who tips it into his palm to see it better.

The world flashes white. Somewhere, a tree cracks, split in two by a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky, and Arthur sees—figures. Two men, locked in each other’s arms, mouths joined in a desperate kiss that looks more like an act of violence. As Arthur watches, one pulls the ring from the other’s hand and lets it fall, and then they’re gone, leaving behind a vivid after-image that makes his skin crawl.

“Holy shit,” Merlin breathes, the unexpected curse rolling through Arthur’s body like heat. “That was way too close.”

Arthur’s not sure if he’s talking about the lightning, or the ghosts.

+

Arthur’s father shuts them down for the afternoon on account of the impending storm, and once Arthur has finished securing tarpaulins and checking the pegs of his tent, he lets his legs carry him to where he needs to be, not knowing where he’s going exactly but equally certain that he’ll end up in the right place. He almost doesn't notice that he's brought the ring with him; it seems necessary.

Merlin is waiting for him up on the hill. Not _for him_, specifically, in that Arthur’s pretty sure he’d deny doing any such thing if asked, but he also seems unsurprised to look up and find Arthur gazing down at him, cocking an eyebrow at the cigarette in his hand.

“I don’t actually smoke,” Merlin explains. “But my Da used to, and I like the smell. Helps me think.”

Arthur nods and sits cross-legged next to him, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking out over the sprawl of the camp. At this hour, there aren’t many people about; most of them are inside, poring over the finds they’ve made during the day, or fast asleep. They're alone. 

“So, that was weird, earlier,” he says. “When we found the ring.”

“Yep.” Merlin pronounces the ‘p’ with studied emphasis, crossing one ankle over the other and stretching out his long legs in front of him. He’s clearly trying to seem unaffected, but he can’t disguise the nervous motion of his fingers as he taps the ash incessantly from the end of the cigarette. “Hell of a coincidence, the tree being struck like that. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Same here,” Arthur agrees fervently. But it hadn’t been a coincidence, and something about Merlin’s expression says he knows that as well as Arthur does. He can feel the metal of the ring pressed into his flesh, the seal sharp as ice against his skin. “Dad says it has the Pendragon crest on it, or what he thinks might be the Pendragon crest. He’s quite excited.”

“So he should be,” Merlin says. “The first tangible proof that King Arthur actually existed. If he’s right, it’ll make him famous.”

_If he’s right._ If, if. Irrationally annoyed by this level-headed analysis, Arthur plucks the cigarette from Merlin’s hand and takes an experimental puff. It burns like hot tar going down, making his eyes water, and Merlin can’t hide his amusement when he takes it back.

“Slow down, Arthur,” he says mildly. “Are you trying to asphyxiate yourself, or what?”

“No.” Arthur coughs again and scowls. “I thought those things were supposed to calm your nerves, but they’re fucking horrible.”

Merlin looks at him sidelong, and taps off the ash again with a single, deliberate movement before putting the cigarette in his mouth. He inhales, hollowing out his cheeks, then exhales a steady stream of smoke without looking away from Arthur’s face.

“Show off,” Arthur mutters. Merlin’s mouth is slick and red, and Arthur can’t take his eyes off it. “Smoking isn’t exactly a mad skill these days, you know.”

“I know.” Merlin smiles crookedly, and Arthur should probably be used to it, this sudden kick of desire in his gut, but it’s not getting any easier. “I just wanted to see the look on your face, that’s all.”

“Wanker.”

“Prat.”

“Hypocrite.”

He laughs. “Takes one to know one.”

They sit in peaceable silence for a while, the scent of rain and dust in the air, limned with the smell of burning ash. Arthur lets the stillness unravel as he watches the sun set over the western ridge, painting the broken remains of the tower in gold.

“When I touched the ring,” he says, but Merlin cuts him off.

“Don’t.”

“You saw it too.” He had intended it to be a question, but Merlin’s response made that unnecessary. “The castle. The—” He’s not sure he can call them lovers; it had been too furious, too painful an embrace for that. “Them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Merlin says firmly, his eyes fixed on the tents below. There is something dangerous about his posture, his back and shoulders hunched against the purpling sky. Elsewhere, a shift in the weather makes the trees catch and bend in the breeze. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Right, of course not.” The fact that they’re even having this conversation makes him a goddamn liar. “So I’ve just been imagining how scared you are this whole time.”

“What are you _talking about_,” Merlin says. He turns, his eyes lit gold from the setting sun—only the sun. He’s looking at the ring on Arthur’s finger. “Christ, Arthur. Always so damn arrogant.”

Arthur says nothing. He feels dangerously off-kilter, like he’s not sure exactly who’s in control of his mouth. Like he might just as easily punch Merlin as kiss him. Or fuck him.

“Ah, hell,” Merlin says. He stubs out the cigarette and drops it at his feet, reaching out to catch hold of Arthur’s chin. Arthur has a brief impression of startlingly blue eyes and a soft mouth and then Merlin is kissing him, pressing him back onto the grass and straddling his thighs. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re petrified,” Arthur breathes, lifting his hips. “You’ve been running away from me for centuries.”

“Not anymore.”

Merlin bites down on his lower lip, and Arthur grunts, scrabbling at his shirt. He has it off over Merlin’s head and then there’s Merlin’s chest—sunburn pink, a riot of freckles across his neck and shoulders.

“Fuck, you’re hot.”

“You think so?” Merlin smiles, undoing Arthur’s belt. “You’re gorgeous. I always did wonder what it would be like to fuck you. _Sire_.” 

He sucks his fingers in his mouth, one by one. Licks the palm of his hand. Arthur groans, pushing up into the wet fist as it closes around his cock, and Merlin strokes him, keeping pace with the tiny aborted movements of Arthur’s hips. He’s rubbing up against Arthur’s thigh as he rocks, fucking himself at one remove, his head thrown back. Fucking sexy. Arthur grips his waist and imagines Merlin riding him for real, imagines driving into that tight heat. It’s the same thing he’s been thinking about since the two of them met, except now it has texture and context. Now he knows the way Merlin looks when he’s desperate, what he sounds like when he’s too far gone to hold back.

Arthur spills over Merlin’s hand and onto his own chest, and Merlin follows shortly after. Heat lightning flashes again over the other side of the hill, and he can feel the way Merlin’s body shudders above him, part aftershock and part something else. The storm front holds, and Arthur catches his breath, staring up into Merlin’s gold-rimmed eyes. Directly above them, the sky is remarkably clear.

+

“I suppose you thought it would be funny,” Arthur says, disentangling himself. “Using the ring to track me down.”

“Funny isn’t the word I’d use.” With a wave of his hand, Merlin clears away the results of their coupling and tidies himself up, leaving Arthur to do up his own trousers without assistance. “Perhaps ironic. Besides, I didn’t exactly _track you down_. The ring called to both of us.”

“Your doing,” Arthur points out. “At least, I assume the magic’s yours.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, proving him right. Arthur sighs and tips back his head, looking up at the dark-bellied clouds still filling the sky. 

“Does this mean you’re ready to forgive me?” he asks nobody in particular.

“Does this mean you’re ready to admit you were wrong?”

Arthur hisses through his teeth.

“Camelot needed an heir,” he says, as though they haven’t had this argument a thousand times before. “I wasn’t wrong about that.”

“You were wrong about the rest of it, though,” Merlin says, which is maybe sort of a concession. “Fucking Mordred. I wanted to kill you myself when I found out what he’d done.”

“I wanted to kill me, too,” Arthur admits, giving an awkward little shrug. “I can’t believe he stabbed me in the back.”

Merlin shifts a little closer to him, settling in the grass so that their sides are almost touching, one hand splayed over Arthur’s chest. Arthur can feel the heat of him against his borrowed skin, vivid and alive the way he hasn’t been for centuries.

“Maybe if you’d listened,” Merlin says.

“Or if you hadn’t _lied to me for years_.”

“We both made mistakes,” Merlin agrees, his mouth quirking, and he looks at Arthur side-on. “I don’t regret any of it, you know. Except for the part where you died.”

“I’ll tell you what I regret,” Arthur says, turning towards him. “I regret the part where our first kiss was also our last.”

There is only so long that they can linger: the ring’s magic is running short, having already done what it was intended to do. There is, however, time enough for this, and Merlin brushes Arthur’s mouth with his own—once, twice. A third time. Arthur looks up at him and touches a thumb against his lips, reading all the unspoken things in Merlin’s eyes.

“Fucking Mordred,” he says, and Merlin laughs.

+

“Maybe we should bury it.” Arthur has taken off the ring, holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger like it’s diseased. “D’you reckon it’s cursed?”

“Cursed, enchanted.” Merlin takes it from him, and the edge of the ring gleams for a moment in his hand, though the sun has long since gone down. “Maybe haunted, I don’t know.”

It looks like an ordinary ring, now. Maybe a little dirty. The Pendragon crest on the seal is pocked and pitted with age, so damaged as to render it almost unrecognisable. Arthur takes it from him and slips it back into his pocket, but even without the ring on his finger he still wants to kiss Merlin and so he does, hands tangling in the messy black hair, until Merlin gently pushes him away.

“We can’t just rush into this because they—because some fucking ghosts are messing with our heads. I’m older than you, for one thing. You barely know me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur says, because he may be a privileged asshole but he likes to think he’s at least a little bit self-aware. “But I like you.”

“Fuck.” Merlin lets his head drop back onto the grass, the pale curve of his throat shining ghostly white through the darkness. A rumble of thunder sounds, far-off. The night is thick and sticky with heat, heavy with the impending summer storm. Arthur turns his head, nosing at Merlin’s neck, and kisses the sweat from his collarbones. Merlin sucks in a breath. “I like you, too.”

The stars wheel above them. Arthur’s not sure if he’s just that giddy or if it’s something else, but Merlin’s threading his fingers through his, holding on tight, so maybe that means he feels it too.

“He had a wife, the king,” Arthur remembers suddenly. “Guinevere. Ran away with Lancelot.”

“Allegedly,” Merlin says. “Maybe it was the other way around.”

“King Arthur ran away with Lancelot?”

“Mm. Or someone else.” He rolls on top of Arthur and kisses him, sliding a flat palm up Arthur’s chest to cover his heart. Arthur can feel the beat of it redoubled, pounding against his ribs as though Merlin’s touch were the only thing trapping it inside. “Maybe Merlin wasn’t the crazy old codger the legends say.”

“Or Arthur had a thing for older men.”

Merlin tweaks a nipple for that, and Arthur catches his breath on a laugh.

“Fuck you, Emrys.”

“Next time,” Merlin promises. It’s beginning to rain; fat, warm droplets against their bare skin, and it feels a little bit like drowning. But it feels a bit like waking up, too. “Next time, for sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (early) Halloween! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments :)


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